Voila!
by Kate Christie
Summary: "So you're flying us up to your house in the Hamptons—in a helicopter—for beef stew?" "You make it sound so... pedestrian." A fun, silly, now M-rated Beckett's birthday fic, based on tweets from WriteRCastle(underscore) and MuseKBeckett sent on November 17th. Part 3/3.
1. Chapter 1

**Voila!**

**A story for Kate's birthday, which was, YES, IN NOVEMBER, inspired by the tweets of WriteRCastle_ (affectionately known as "Fake WriteRCastle") on November 17****th****. If you are not following him/her/them, go find the account on Twitter. Part one of two. Photos referenced in the tweets in this chapter can be found by link at the end of the chapter.**

The sweet scent of flowers was the first thing she noticed as she rose to consciousness. Roses, in fact, her subconscious registered.

The next thing she noticed was the decided lack of a Castle-sized bed-warmer behind her under the covers. Odd. He was never the first one out of bed on a Saturday off. It usually took at least half an hour of prodding, or the smell of bacon, to get him moving on weekends.

When her eyes blinked hazily open, they took in the single tight red bud against her pillowcase.

No Castle.

Rose on her pillow.

And then she heard the sound of something scraping, and then sizzling, through the crack of the bedroom door in the direction of her kitchen.

Castle was cooking _her_ bacon.

Out of bed and into her robe and Uggs in under a minute, she grabbed the rose from her pillow before scuffing out to her kitchen.

Castle was at her island in his pajamas, extracting crisped slices from a skillet and laying them on paper towels when he heard her approach, lifting his head with wide, panicked eyes.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Last time I checked, I didn't need permission to walk into _my_ kitchen, Castle."

Abandoning his tongs and oven mitt, he circled the island, shooing her with both arms.

"Go back to bed. Right now. Turn around, take off the slippers and the robe, do not pass go, go directly to bed."

When she hadn't budged with his words, he grabbed her around the shoulders, turned her around, and marched her back toward her bedroom. Mid-circuit, she caught sight of her largest vase sitting on her coffee table, full of what must be three dozen more red roses.

"What are you doing, Castle? Let go of me."

Halfheartedly attempting to hold her ground, she locked her knees and grabbed for one of his hands. Leaning into her from behind, his voice was warm and insistent in her ear.

"You're ruining my surprise birthday breakfast in bed, Beckett."

Heart clenching a bit, her indignation deflated slightly and she took a few steps in the direction he was shoving.

"I hate to break it to you, but it's not going to be a surprise anymore."

"But it will still be breakfast in bed on your birthday. And that's the absolute requirement. The element of surprise was just an added bonus."

His hands gripped the edges of her robe and peeled it off as they passed through the bedroom door.

The last person, well the only person who had made her breakfast in bed on her birthday had been her mom. And she had done it every single year.

Lifting the covers, he tucked her snugly back in, fluffing and stuffing pillows behind her so she was sitting comfortably. Touching the tip of the rose she still clutched in one hand to the tip of his nose, she smirked and sassed.

"So what if my birthday had been on a Monday?"

He leaned over and planted a tiny kiss on her nose, then planted a slightly sloppier one on her lips, smacking as he withdrew a bit, focusing smiling eyes on hers.

"Then I'd have been up at 4:30 instead of 7:30. You'd have gotten yogurt and granola, though. I love you, but my pancakes require measuring skill that I just don't have before sunrise."

With that he climbed off the bed and disappeared to the kitchen, words trailing from his retreating form.

"Everything is ready. I just have to pour your coffee, and I'll be right back."

That sounded suspiciously one-sided. Being served breakfast in bed, even on her birthday, made her feel a little… indulgent? Selfish, maybe? It had just been the norm when she was a kid, and her mom had always sat with her and stolen her bacon.

"You're eating with me, right?" she called through the open door.

"If you insist," he answered back, voice slightly muffled as if he were digging in her fridge.

When he re-entered with an enormous, and unfamiliar, footed tray full of food, her mouth dropped open. By the time he was settling it across her lap, she managed to collect her surprise into a sentence, tapping the smooth dark surface of the rectangular tray.

"Where did this come from?"

He was already halfway back out the door.

"Consider it part of your birthday present. I looked for trays in your kitchen last weekend and couldn't find one, so I went to Crate and Barrel. I figured we'd use them again."

"Them?"

The object of his plurality entered the room just ahead of him, covered in a matching set of dishes and food. As he settled in on his side of the bed, she looked over her breakfast, unfolded her napkin over her lap.

The spread was impressive: coffee, orange juice, pancakes with what looked suspiciously like chocolate chip smiley faces in them, bacon, and fresh strawberries. She picked up a small bottle of syrup shaped like a maple leaf and inspected it.

"That's the real stuff. Canadian."

Tucking his napkin into the v-neck of his t-shirt, he poured syrup over his own pile of pancakes.

"You brought over Canadian maple syrup, bought me breakfast trays, oh, and three dozen roses, and got up at seven thirty on a Saturday just to make me breakfast in bed for my birthday?"

Her tone was… incredulous, certainly not sentimental, and the moisture in her eyes would not betray her—she blinked as she continued to stare at the pancakes, smiling cheerily up at her. Castle seemed to notice her decided lack of food intake and paused in cutting up his pancakes to answer.

"Yes... Is there a… problem?" She turned to him then, watched his eyebrows rise, eyes widen, fork return to his plate. "Is it the pancakes? I can make you an omelet instead."

This man made things well up inside her that she was _not_ ready to feel yet. And those things had a way of spilling over when she got taken unawares. Her voice was mostly steady, at least.

"No, Castle, the pancakes are perfect. It's all perfect."

One damn tear made it past her lashes and blazed down her cheek. His thumb was there to catch it before it went far, gently sliding over her cheek and spreading the moisture, cooling that patch of flaring skin.

"Hey. What's wrong?"

His eyes were soft, his palm gentle against her cheek, and she turned into his touch, shut her eyes to just feel for a moment. Sniffing inelegantly, she opened them again, smiled up at him.

"Nothing's wrong. My mom used to make me breakfast in bed on my birthday."

A small twitch at the corners of his mouth let her know that he understood her tears weren't for him, and weren't entirely sad.

"Oh."

It wasn't surprise, just understanding she heard in his low, soft syllable. The "oh" she always thought he saved for only her. It took effort to pull herself together in that tiny, freefalling, soul-bearing moment, as she realized that once again, he was exactly what she needed. But in the end, she found a smile, graced him with it, saw it reflected back in spades.

"It's really sweet, Castle. Thank you."

His lids lowered along with his voice, and a rare flush pinked his cheeks.

"You're welcome. I've always done it for Alexis, too. Just seemed like the right thing, somehow."

Covering his hand with her own, she gripped his fingers, nudged her lips into his palm to kiss the soft hollow.

"It was." He could see her while she remembered. He deserved to see how he affected her—how much knowing just how much he loved her meant. And she had no reason to cry today. Her partner had made her pancakes, and she wasn't about to waste them. "Now let's eat before your fancy pancakes get cold."

Letting go of his hand in favor of her fork, she dug in to her stack of fluffy flapjacks as he balked at her choice of adjective.

"My pancakes are not fancy. They are homemade. There were no foofy ingredients involved, and there was no folding or frothing or egg separating."

Leaning over her tray, he doused her pancakes with authentic Canadian maple syrup before she could take a bite. Lowering one eyebrow, she gave him the bedroom version of the Beckett glare.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, Castle."

# *# * # * #

Lunch with her father had been, well it had been her birthday lunch with her father. They went to the same diner, sat at the same booth in the corner, ordered the same hamburgers and fries. They talked about her cases. They talked about his cases. He needled her about dating Castle. She needled him about not dating anyone. He bragged that he had finally gotten on Twitter. She harassed him about the fact that it had taken Castle guilting him into it to finally convert him to social media.

She opened her gift, always a book. At least that had been a bit of a surprise this year—fiction, and the latest in her favorite Spanish author's series. Kate hadn't realized he had been paying attention when she told him about the first two books over the summer. But apparently he had not only heard her, but read them and enjoyed them enough to buy this third one immediately for both of them.

The copy of _The Prisoner of Heaven_ was tucked at her elbow as she unlocked her apartment, stepped inside.

Again, the scent hit her first—roses, and not just the single vase he had left on her coffee table a few hours before.

No. Her keys hit the floor, forgotten in her limp fingers.

They were everywhere. Bunches upon bunches of garnet blossoms, some still tightly closed, some full and open and dripping with velvety petals. Layered leafy bundles crowding her chairs, filling vases in her kitchen, covering every horizontal surface with their ruby red declaration.

When her back hit the door, weight shutting it a tad louder than her neighbors probably would appreciate, she came out of her haze.

Red roses meant love. A quick guesstimate put this at around thirty dozen, which added to the three from this morning made a tidy sum numbering her years on the planet. Thirty-three dozen red roses was a fairly unmistakable sentiment.

Half-expecting him to jump out at any moment, she did a quick sweep of her apartment to make sure she was alone.

No card.

The bastard was pretty sure of himself, using the key she'd just given him a few weeks ago to sneak back in with a florist shop worth of long-stems without feeling the need to leave a note.

When she checked her room, she found the bed made with a red-papered box lying on top. This did at least have a card attached.

"Kate, Roses are red, my eyes are blue. Be ready at seven, and no high-heeled shoes!"

Tearing off the paper, she was surprised to find a red leather jacket, soft and supple and probably worth a fortune, but decidedly not formal attire for their date night. A gift like this was going to require a long discussion about what did and did not qualify as "too much" for a birthday gift. And Christmas was coming up, so maybe she should reserve an entire afternoon.

Pulling the coat out and shrugging it on, she stuck her hands into the pockets and found one of Castle's business cards. On the back was scrawled one word in red ink: "Pants."

Hmm. Flats. Leather jacket. Pants. So maybe he wasn't taking her to some exclusive restaurant as she had first assumed. Probably not the theatre either.

At five past seven, she was sitting on her sofa surrounded by roses stuffed into every object in her apartment that would hold water. Three dozen had fit in her pasta pot.

Her phone buzzed, which she assumed was Castle texting to apologize for being late, but on closer inspection, it just said "Check your twitter feed."

Following all of half a dozen people, she didn't have her phone set to alert her, and he knew that. So when she clicked on the app, she was surprised to see several "Happy Birthday" tweets directed at her. And then there was the most recent one, not even directed at her.

"Wishing a very Happy Birthday to Whats-Her-Name! p.s. are you going to stop turning more gorgeous every year before I pass out?"

Shooting a quick photo of her rose-covered living room with her phone, she responded.

"WriteRCastle_ you have no idea ;) And thanks everyone! This kinda sums up my day"

Barely a minute later, another tweet appeared this one with a photo.

"MuseKBeckett And this kinda sums up my night ;-)"

As the photo loaded she stood up, one hand gripping her iPhone like a vise, the other clenched at her side. A rosy red hue invaded her vision, and her heart kicked into sprinting pace. She was going to kill him. She would kill him, and Lanie would cover it up in the autopsy.

That was a picture of a gift bag of naughty lingerie. And it was laying on what appeared to be his guestroom bedspread.

Just then, there was a crisp, measured knock at her door. Perfect. She could get the killing him part out of the way, and still have a chance to enjoy the rest of her birthday.

Stalking across hardwood was just not as satisfying in these damn no-heeled boots. There was no ominous clack, and she wasn't constantly propelled forward by gravity to higher speed, better for swooping in for a rapid kill.

When she flung the door open, tirade already prepared to launch from her lips, she stopped short at the image before her. He was dressed in her favorite black leather jacket, ruby-toned button-down, and jeans, with one errant curl of chestnut hair haphazardly askew over one eyebrow. And though he had his phone clutched firmly in one hand, in the other, he had a single blazingly orange rose.

Kate Beckett was no student of flower arranging, but she remembered an occasion on which Lanie had received a large bouquet of orange roses from a certain detective and explained that orange meant enthusiasm and desire.

Her hand wrapped around his wrist, yanking him and his rose over the threshold and into her body.

"Get in here, and get off that damn phone."

Ever presumptuous, he wrapped his phone arm around her and lit into her lips with an overpowering kiss, tongue and teeth and breath all invading.

When she finally separated, realizing her door was still open, allowing her nosy eighty-four-year-old neighbor an unobstructed view of their unabashed snogging, he came away with a pop and a smirk on his red and slightly swollen lips. The words that would wipe it off his face lay in wait, and she decided there was no time like the present for deflating his ego. Tilting her head at 45 degrees, she gave him her best pissed off half-grin.

"Remember how you convinced my dad to join Twitter? Guess what—he started following you this morning."

**# * # * # * #**

**Joy, as always, thanks for the word-search and the unending patience therewith.**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com**

**Pic dot twitter dot com slash q1JKBw5X**

**Pic dot twitter dot com slash 2FBc6djJ**


	2. Chapter 2

**Voila! Chapter Two**

**Continuation of my story for Kate's birthday, which was, YES, IN NOVEMBER, inspired by the tweets of WriteRCastle_ (affectionately known as "Fake WriteRCastle") on November 17th. If you are not following him/her/them, go find the account on Twitter. Go back and read part one, so that this will make sense. Part two of three.**

**# * # * # * #  
**

The immediate and drastic shift in his expression was worth every ounce of embarrassment from her father. His eyes went wide, brows rose to a ridiculous height, jaw dropped and nostrils flared.

"Forget that one tiny detail, did you?"

When he was still frozen in fear a generous minute or so later, Kate decided a further prompt was in order.

"Castle?"

Still no movement, except for the working of his jaw opening and closing with no sound escaping.

"Are you having a stroke or something?" She whacked him on the shoulder as she stepped around him to shut the front door.

"Ouch! That hurt, Beckett!"

At least his pain sensing neurons were firing.

"It's gonna hurt a lot more when you have to explain this-" she waved the phone displaying the photo of the lingerie bag six inches from his nose "-to my dad." Her lips scrunched in disgust. "Where is it, anyway?"

Turning to follow her progress into the botanical garden that had taken over her living room, he seemed confused at her question.

"Where is what?"

Abruptly halting and rounding on Castle, she imagined actual billows of steam emanating from her ears. His quick eyebrow raise and near stumble in an effort to not plow over her did not deter her from her mission.

"My stupid bag of-" she thought better of her bellowing, slightly screechy tone and dropped to an emphatic stage whisper "-naughty lingerie!" Idiot. She left that part to her inside voice.

A tiny spark of the real Castle finally glimmered through as one corner of his mouth curled upward.

"That is for me to know, and you to find out, Detective."

Letting out a disgruntled huff, she challenged back, affecting what she hoped was disinterest.

"It looks like it's on the bed in your guestroom at the loft."

"Ah, that's where it _was_ an hour ago when I took the photo, but that's _not_ where it is _now_."

"Castle, is this why you had me wear flats and pants and a leather jacket? Are you taking me on some kind of scavenger hunt for this lingerie?"

"No, but wow, I'm totally using that for next year. Or maybe Nikki's birthday, because she can't murder me in my sleep..."

The statement and the devilish grin that went with it warranted an eyeroll, if nothing else to cover up the fact that she had, in fact, contemplated murder just moments earlier.

Though her original plan for the night hadn't included broaching the subject of ridiculous presents, she began to think that it might be best if she made her wishes clear right from the start.

Trying her best not to sound harsh, she met his eyes and schooled her features.

"Listen, Castle, I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful. Breakfast this morning was really sweet. It was perfect, really. But thirty-three dozen long-stemmed red roses left in my apartment?" She ran her hands over the lapels of her new jacket. "This coat? The lingerie? And now whatever you have planned for the rest of the night?" Treading lightly with her tone of voice, she expected his face to fall, but oddly, he remained neutral, a ghost of a smile still lighting his eyes. "This is too much. You don't need to sweep me off my feet with presents and grand gestures. You don't need to try to win me. You already have me."

Not shying away, eyes bright and wide, not looking crestfallen in the least, he took a step into her personal space, nudged the phone down out of his direct line of sight where she had been holding it nearly since he entered.

"You're right. I don't need to win you. For whatever reason, you picked me. But what I do need is to be able to love you. People love in different ways, Kate. For some people it's making coffee, or holding a hand or giving a hug, or smiling from across a crowded room. For me, it's all of that, but it's also sometimes big, and loud, and ridiculous, and over-the-top."

Taking her hands in his, he faced her square on, lowered his brow, let the corners of his mouth barely tip upward.

"Do you remember when you were eight years old? When, if someone wanted to take you out for ice cream, you didn't calculate how many miles you'd have to run to make up for the calories? And if someone gave you a present for no reason, you did just what your parents had taught you, and said 'Thank you,' and ripped off the paper?"

Her eyes narrowed, wondering just where he was going with his little speech, but also caught up in remembering, finding herself back at her eighth birthday party at Rollercade, tearing paper off of packages to find so many surprises, never thinking about her friends' motivation, or ulterior motives, for the gifts. Now she tended to slip a finger under the edge, loosen the tape, fold up the paper to use for another present another day.

"Kate, I trust you with my life, with my family, with my heart. For the next few hours, I just need you to trust me with your sense of wonder."

There was just something about a sincere, unguarded Castle that made her want to give in, made her want to be or do or see whatever he asked. And so, despite all her reservations, she closed her eyes, took a breath, and jumped.

"Okay, Castle. Where are we going?"

When she opened her lids, he was beaming down at her from his three-inch advantage. He had probably told her not to wear heels just for this purpose. No... no. She was giving him the benefit of the doubt, going along, letting her inner child take over for a few hours.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

She was regretting this already.

# * # * # * #

The town car was warm, leather seats buttery soft and inviting as they sat in Saturday night crosstown traffic on their way to who knew where.

A cursory inspection of the interior of the car gave her no hints as to where they were headed, and showed no sign of the little paper lingerie bag.

"How was your afternoon with Lanie? Did you dissect anything interesting?"

"You know, Lanie and I don't always do things related to work. Sometimes we actually do normal, girlie things, like get our nails done or go to a spa or go shopping."

"Ooo. Did you go to the spa? I know, you lounged naked in the steam bath and then got massages."

His eyes were glazing over as his gaze drifted slightly east of her shoulder, out the window; the images were almost visible as he conjured them in his mind. She could tell he was painting a picture of her in nothing but a tiny towel, laid out and flushed from being worked over by him, or maybe some busty blonde Swedish masseuse.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but today was just the salon. We got pedicures, though, and that does involve a foot massage."

"You know, if you like massages, my guy keeps telling me about his special couple's massage deal."

Just asking for it... She patted him on his knee.

"That's sweet, Castle, but I don't think Lanie would enjoy a couple's massage. She gets a little possessive about her favorite masseuse, probably wouldn't want to share."

"I wasn't talking about Lanie..." he huffed in exasperation.

Running her hand up his chest and scooting in close, she dropped her voice to her best sexy whisper, careful to lisp coyly at all the right moments.

"Oh, so you mean you were thinking _we_ could have a massage... _together_? You like the idea of us _naked_, on a table, getting rubbed down until we're both loose and limber and slick with all that _warm_, _fragrant_ oil?"

His tiny, quick nod was his only response other than the half-strangled whimper, eyes having gone black with lust and lips slack and parted. Nearly in his lap and lips almost brushing his, she clamped down with a vise grip over his quad and barked out her punch line, volume ramped up to interrogation level.

"In your dreams, Writer-Boy. Now tell me where we're going."

The hazy softness in his eyes immediately vanished, replaced by raised brows and stunned, constricted pupils. Flinging himself backward, he ended up plastered against the door in an attempt to escape her. After a moment of frowning appraisal, he skittishly broke eye contact and peered out the window. His voice sounded a bit choked when he finally answered.

"I would, but we're already here, so you'll just have to see for yourself."

Nearly climbing over him to look out the window, she tried to make out the structure outside the window through the tinted glass.

"Oh, no. No. You didn't."

Instantly, he was transformed back into the suave, self-assured cruise director, complete with honeyed, mirthful tone and a light smack to her well-placed rear.

"You bet your sweet little bottom I did. I distinctly remember using the phrase 'over-the-top' not half an hour ago. And I also seem to remember your somewhat grudging assent to go along with said trip back to simpler, less curmudgeonly times."

Curmudgeonly? Was that even an actual word? Beside the point. And she did have one.

"Castle, _that_ is a helicopter."

Shifting back into her seat, she gave him a wary glare, which he answered with all the glee of the person receiving the gift rather than the one giving it.

"That would be a correct assessment, Detective."

Well, at least the mystery of the long pants and flat shoes had been solved. There was no way she could have climbed aboard this ride in a sequined minidress and four-inch stilettos, at least not without flashing half the inhabitants of the buildings surrounding the West Side helipad.

Out of the car in under two seconds, his hand reached back to help her out of the seat.

"Your winged chariot awaits, Mademoiselle." His features scrunched slightly. "Bladed chariot?"

Her facial muscles were starting to feel the strain of nearly-continuous eye rolling.

As they exited the car, a lanky, tanned, attractively rough man, probably mid-thirties, stepped up to greet them, reached out a well-calloused hand.

"Mr. Castle. Detective Beckett. I'm Harvey, and I'll be doing your flying this evening."

His grip was just firm enough to inspire confidence in his flying skills, and his charm easy enough to make her think he would make a decent tour guide.

In no time they were strapped in, miked up, and debriefed, and Harvey was lifting off over the Hudson.

Kate had flown in helicopters before in the context of her job, but typically their flight plans had included scenic vistas of Newark or Poughkeepsie in daylight as they scanned for a suspect or trolled for missing vehicles. She had certainly never been flown around Manhattan at dusk just for the purpose of seeing the view.

Harvey followed the river north, then veered right over Central Park. The lights already filling the dark spaces over most of the island were absent in the giant green space, making it appear as a rectangular void of inky blackness, crisscrossed by the curlicues of lighted walking paths and the starker bright streaks made by the few streets that traversed its width.

The amicable pilot was telling tales, anecdotes seamlessly interwoven with historical facts and architectural details, building height statistics. Despite his voice humming directly in her ear thanks to the headset, she found herself missing at least half his spiel in favor of her own quiet rememberings, a school field trip here, a date there, or sometimes a body. But none of that dampened her spirits, which despite her best efforts were rising with every hovering moment over the island.

Though she hated to admit it, Castle had done well.

Speaking of, Belvedere Castle stood out against the darkness of the Ramble as they neared the eastern border of the park at 5th Avenue. An event was being set up on the roof of the Met, fairy lights strung across with outdoor heaters already warming the venue and a band warming up on a small stage.

Swinging south, their bird took them by the iconic scallops topping the Chrysler Building. Brightly lit and entirely Art Deco, they made the structure stand out from its more modern near neighbors, full of wisdom and charisma that no recent structure could imitate. Like a grande dame of the theatre in a room full of Hollywood starlets, a classic beauty radiated from the skyscraper, setting it clearly apart.

It wasn't until Castle took her hand, laced his fingers with hers, that she realized she was staring goofily out at the skyline, cheeks frozen in a wide smile as she took in this new view of her city.

She was having fun.

And by the look on his beaming face, so pleased at the view, or maybe just her response to it, so was Castle.

Harvey's sunny voice broke in through their headsets, snapping her out of her momentary reverie.

"Empire State out the right window. I'm giving it a circle."

Now wait just a minute. The top of the Empire State Building looked decidedly purple. Had he-no. No way he'd arranged for her favorite color just for-well, he had said "over-the-top."

"Castle, you didn't-I mean the color changes every week for all sorts of things, but you wouldn't-"

"Wish I could say that I had, but no. Just got lucky that the current charity they are supporting shares your favorite color."

"Oh thank God. I was going to have to hurt you for that one. They publish the colors and the reasons for them on their website, and I was just imagining my name and Gates and ugh..."

Times Square was fully lit as they zig-zagged back over the theater district, and the Broadway marquees were all ablaze, beckoning the tourists and musical buffs for their evening performances.

The loft, the precinct, her apartment were all tiny dots in the darker depths below the tips of the skyscrapers. But the towers of the financial district shot up skyward like electrified lollipops in a life sized game of Candyland, the new World Trade Center structure dominating lower Manhattan as its predecessors had over a decade before.

Seeing the Statue of Liberty from above, from the same perspective as all the TV cameras and movie shots, should have seemed cliche, shouldn't have inspired the little knot of pride and warmth deep in her chest. But Kate found herself defenseless against the giddy onslaught of Americana. Maybe it was time to visit Liberty Island again, be a bit of a tourist in her own city more often.

Having rounded the southern tip of the island, she assumed they would be headed back to the West side to set down, but she was surprised when Harvey veered east and then south instead, headed out across the bay toward open ocean.

As if he sensed her question, Castle gave her hand a squeeze, pulled her focus.

"One more stop."

Huh. Okay. She narrowed her eyes at him and then slanted them out the window to see the bridges out of Manhattan.

"What?"

"Where exactly is this other stop?"

"East. It's not too far."

Glancing at her wrist, she saw it was a few minutes before eight.

Half an hour later, as she watched the darkened coastline whiz by beneath her window, a sinking feeling had taken root.

"How much further is 'not too far,' Castle?"

"Maybe 20 minutes, tops."

He wasn't meeting her eyes. That was not a good sign. Meant he either knew he was in trouble and was intentionally avoiding her reaction, or that he was entirely clueless that she was contemplating torture methods.

Because knowing roughly how fast a helicopter travels, and having seen more than half of Long Island already pass beneath them, she knew exactly where they were headed.

And it would likely involve buzzing his friendly neighborhood millionaire mobster, Vinnie "The Scar" Cardano.

**# * # * # * #**

**Thanks again to Joy for the on-call beta read. If you don't get the Vinnie "The Scar" reference, let me know and I'll PM you.**

**Next installment: Kate finally gets her hands on the naughty lingerie bag, and M-rated fun ensues.**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com**

**Photo used as the cover art is from a Twitter post of WriteRCastle_ on November 17th. Thanks to him for the inspiration and permission to run with this little idea!  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Voila Chapter 3:**

**Warning, there is a distinct rating change for the close of this chapter (M). Also, if you want to see the naughty lingerie, there is a link at the end. Thanks to Twitter's WriteRCastle_ and MuseKBeckett for the inspiration for this lovely "Kate's Birthday Fic" ride. I am forever in their debt for letting me play with the idea.**

"Castle, we're going to the Hamptons."

"Correct again. You're two for two tonight."

Passing impatient and rounding the curve into annoyed, Kate scanned the shoreline below, watched as dots of light sped by, each one a beach house or condo complex.

"Castle, _why_ are we going to the Hamptons?"

"For dinner."

"For-Castle, there are _thousands_ of restaurants in Manhattan."

They had just been to the Hamptons, and they hadn't managed to do anything relaxing over a whole long weekend. It was already almost 9 PM on Saturday night. There was no way they would have time to enjoy the place, and besides, it was too cold for the beach.

"Oh, but there is nothing even _approaching_ Meg Winters in Manhattan."

"Who the hell is Meg Winters?"

"She runs the premiere catering service in East Hampton. And before that she was Alexis' babysitter."

"I'm still not seeing the reasoning here."

"Remember a few weeks ago when Alexis was home for the weekend watching that Julia Child movie with Meryl Streep?"

"Vaguely."

"You told Alexis you'd never heard of that dish the woman was making for the dinner party. Boeuf bourguignon. Meg is essentially the world's expert on it-used Alexis and me as guinea pigs for months one summer while she was perfecting it. It's one of our absolute favorites, so I thought it was time you gave it a try."

"So you're flying us up to your house in the Hamptons—in a helicopter—for beef stew?"

"You make it sound so... pedestrian. This recipe combines the classic American ingredients of bacon and lean beef with French red wine and herbs and root vegetables into a marvel of culinary delight of the highest order."

Waiting a beat before turning her head to meet his eyes, she used what she imagined was one of her limited number of eye rolls remaining for the evening before the muscles just seized up from fatigue.

"Are we flying back tonight?"

Snapping out of his culinary diatribe, his eyes slanted her way, lips pursed as his head tilted in consternation.

"Oh, well, I guess we could, if you wanted to, but I sort of thought we could stay the night, give it another try. You know, since we got a little _distracted_ from relaxing last time?"

"But I don't have any of my stuff."

"I _might_ have taken the liberty of packing a few essentials for you."

His foot tapped against a black leather duffel bag stowed under his seat. When had that gotten there? The driver must have had it in the trunk, and then she got distracted with her harness, and Harvey had had to help her... Her powers of observation were totally off tonight. Must be a lingering effect of all those damn roses. Reminded her of Poison Ivy and her mind-control pheromones, or plant toxins, or whatever.

The sunny voice of their pilot broke in on her comic book villainess contemplation just in time to keep her from diving for the bag to see what _exactly _he considered to be "essentials" for a night in the Hamptons house.

"Okay, folks, we're almost there. Gonna set down in just a moment. Hold on tight."

"Hey Harvey, can you make sure to turn the right way to shine your light in the upstairs window of that white two-story with the gray slate roof?"

"Castle! That's Vinnie's house! Have you forgotten how well our last meeting ended?"

"Vinnie? Oh, Vinnie and I made up a week after we got back to Manhattan. I sent him copies of every Nikki Heat book personalized to his wife and four bottles of Napa Cabernet, and he called me to personally apologize for storming out on our dinner and invited us to his place 'whenever we were in the neighborhood.' I called him yesterday to tell him we'd be waving at him on our way in, but it was a quick trip, so we'd have to take a rain check on the dinner invitation."

Sure enough, when the headlight from the helicopter hit the balcony on Vinnie's house, their somewhat rotund former dinner guest poked his head out and gave a big wave in his red velvet bathrobe. Ugh, Kate did not need to see that much leg...

All three in the helicopter waved back, though she didn't want to think too hard about what their pilot's hand should have been doing rather than waving.

After unloading himself and the duffel, and then giving Kate a rather chivalrous hand down from the helicopter, Castle shook hands with Harvey again.

"I'll call you tomorrow to let you know."

"Sounds good, Mr. Castle. Hope you had fun, ma'am!"

Kate inwardly cringed as she shook his hand. She was turning 34 not 64. Did he really have to "ma'am" her on her birthday?

"I did, thank you so much, Harvey."

Turning away from the craft, Castle took her hand and marched toward the sand. A petite blonde stepped up onto the Tarmac, smile full and broad.

"Hey Mr. Castle."

"Meg, I told you to stop with the 'Mr. Castle' bit when you started catering my parties. I was 'Mr. Castle' when you were fifteen and Alexis was five."

"Fine, Rick. Good to see you."

It was a genuine, if sarcastic smile that painted the woman's face as she got pulled in for an enormous hug by her former employer.

Turning out of that embrace, she pinned Kate with an intimidatingly protective appraisal.

"And you must be Kate Beckett."

Kate smiled and reached out her hand for Meg's.

"Guilty as charged."

The woman's smile warmed at Kate's answer.

"I've heard so much about you." She side glanced Rick, then shifted twinkling eyes at Kate. "So very much."

"I hope it was all good, otherwise, he was lying."

"Oh, don't worry, he was sickeningly positive."

Castle chose that moment to wrap his free hand around her waist, tug her forcibly into his side, enough momentum in the gesture to pull a strangled chortle out of her.

"Come on, guys, let's get you home for dinner."

And somehow, despite the absolutely absurd circumstances, something clicked in Kate's head at the young woman's comment. No matter how many women he may have brought to the Hamptons, she was fairly sure she was the only one with whom he'd solved a murder. And that gave them history-it gave her "home." As much as she told herself that his past with Meredith and Gina and whomever else he had impressed with his mansion was unimportant, there was something almost tangibly relevant about the fact that now she had a past with him here-a past that someone who had known him for over a decade recognized.

They were loaded into the backseat of a golf cart and chauffeured along the beach by their chef extraordinaire, skirting the soft sand in favor of the well-packed paths between Vinnie's house and his.

Meg took them right up to his back door, ushering them in and to the table, which was set with china, crystal, and a vase full of at least three dozen roses in a vibrant orange. Oy.

"Really, Castle? More?"

His hands rose in a gesture of surrender.

"Yours aren't up here."

Meg got them settled with salads and bread and the highly anticipated boeuf bourguignon, adding a bottle of something earthy and garnet red from his wine cellar to the balloon goblets before wiping her hands and edging toward the front door.

"What else can I get you? The champagne is chilling for later, and dessert's staying warm in the oven until you're ready for it."

"Meg, are you sure you won't stay and join us? Let us give a running commentary of compliments to the chef?"

"Oh, thank you for inviting me, but I can't, M-Rick. If I don't get home soon, Alice and Dan will find a way to destroy the kitchen."

Turning toward Kate, the younger woman leaned in conspiratorially.

"My husband thinks our four-year-old is a cooking prodigy, what with coming from two chef parents and all, so he does these "creative experiments" with her, which essentially means letting her throw whatever she wants in a dish and then trying to turn it into something edible. And of course the other outcome is all those ingredients get thrown all over the kitchen, in her hair, in his hair. Have you ever tried to get Karo syrup, egg yolk and molasses out of a French braid?"

Kate smiled as she shook her head, but she was inwardly wincing at just the idea.

"It pays to keep a stock of Goo Gone next to the Johnson's baby shampoo when you have a four-year-old. I learned that from Alexis and Rick-run-in with silly putty and marshmallow creme."

Meg's eyes slanted toward the father in question. There was obviously a longer story there, and Kate couldn't help conjuring an image of Rick hauling a tiny Alexis into a tub full of bubbles, dousing her fiery hair with Goo Gone, all the while congratulating her on her latest masterpiece.

"Anyway, enjoy, and happy birthday, Kate."

"Thank you so much. This is just amazing, all of it, really."

"Least I can do for my favorite client. I'll let myself out."

Looking back across the amazing spread of food and wine to her boyfriend's face, an image flashed from somewhere in her subconscious. Two little brunette pipsqueaks with pigtails, one slightly shorter than the other, were double-teaming their dad in this very kitchen, and the flour was flying.

"What?"

She shouldn't have been amazed anymore at his ability to call her out on every errant thought in her head, but at that moment, it took her by surprise, and so she deflected.

"This all really is wonderful, Castle."

His answering smile told her all she needed to know.

# * # * # * #

An hour later, she was so full of food she thought she might not be capable of getting up from the table under her own power. Castle had been exactly right. Meg Winters was a magician.

"You ready for some champagne? A little dessert maybe?"

"There is no way another bite of food will fit in my stomach tonight."

"But bubbles will help with your digestion. And it's your birthday; champagne is a requirement."

He had that puppy dog look on his face. Damn it, she could not resist that look.

"Fine. Yes, open the champagne."

"How about you go get comfy, and I'll bring it upstairs?"

"Comfy? You mean I finally get my hands on the infamous lingerie."

His brow rose in challenge.

"You know what I think? I think you're intimidated by the potential awesomeness of my lingerie selection. I think you're afraid my taste in lingerie might be even better than yours."

"What? No. You're delusional. I am in no way intimidated by your lingerie. Where did you even find it?"

"Oh, a little shop I stumbled on run by this crazy Texan. She told me to bring you along next time. Pick out some things we'll both enjoy."

"Dream on, Castle."

"Oh, believe me, after visiting Dora's, dreams are not a problem."

A grunt of disgust escaped as she pushed back from the table, stood and stretched. Fine. If he wanted her to put on this lingerie with a stomach full of yummy French food, she was game. The food baby would be his fault, after all.

"Hand over the bag. Let's see it."

"Oh, I already put it upstairs."

When had he possibly-oh, she had been in the bathroom for less than three minutes. What was up with stealth-boyfriend today?

"Fine. Meet me up there. With the champagne. At this rate, I'm gonna need it."

That little paper bag was sitting cheerily on the bedspread when Kate entered the master bedroom. Snagging it and stepping into the bath, she somehow managed to resist the nearly overwhelming temptation to dump the contents of the bag on the counter straight away. Rather, she calmly freshened up, washed her face with that magical scrub she had found in the top drawer in September, brushed her teeth with the toothbrush she had left in the cabinet next to his, and then calmly, well maybe not _so_ calmly, peeked inside the little bag.

Drawing out the tissue paper, she first encountered a black lace bra, which seemed pretty tame, except for the fact that the straps were made from... pearls? Strings of lustrous, round, white pearls, as long as a full necklace on each side. She'd seen the crazy Victoria Secret diamond-encrusted bra on TV, but she couldn't remember seeing anything quite like this. Well, she had told him she liked jewelry once not too long ago. Geez. Only Castle would turn her lingerie into fine jewelry...

Digging down for the matching underwear, she looped a finger through another string of pearls. Pulling the lacy swatch of fabric out of the bag, she held it up, turned it in her hands a few times. How was this supposed to... go on... exactly?

Taking the edges of the lace between her fingers, and letting the double strand of pearls hang down, suddenly it hit her.

The pearls were supposed to go... there.

Seriously? I mean… She'd worn her fair share of teeny tiny g-strings in her life, but this? This was basically a waistband of lace with just the... pearls. Um. Yeah.

Oh, but she was not going to be intimidated by this naughty little pair of pearl panties. And let Castle think he'd been right all along? Never. Naughty was her middle name.

As she stripped off her clothes, the thought crossed her mind that she was glad she had let Lanie talk her into being a bit adventurous at the salon that afternoon. This "underwear" was going to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, and she supposed the fact that she was a little more bare than usual in that general vicinity might be a good thing. Give him a little surprise of his own, as Lanie had said.

The bra was really no big deal, but as she shimmied into the underwear, slid the lace into place over her hips, she suddenly realized exactly how _intimate_ apparel could get. Well then. That was... interesting.

And then she took a step, headed for the door, and all those pearls _shifted_. Oh. My. Goodness.

Girding her loins, quite literally, and grabbing the satiny robe conveniently hanging off the back of the door, she covered herself up and faced the music.

There was music, actually. Something playing just low enough that she couldn't quite make it out, but a nice background nonetheless. Was that "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend?" Never mind, she didn't have time to contemplate the man's music selection when the man was looking absolutely yummy, nearly naked, hair artistically rumpled. How did he do that, anyway? Her hair just looked _rumpled_ if she ran her hands through it...

Rounding the corner of the massive headboard, her thoughts snapped back into focus at the sight of bare-chested, biceps-flexing _male_. Castle was backlit by the roaring fire, surrounded by candles and stripped down to just his boxers, _royal blue_ _silk_ boxers. Casually leaning back into the edge of the extra tall mattress, he set the bottle of champagne back in the bucket, arm muscles taut and in stark relief against the orange glow of the flames. Two flutes already filled with the incandescent, bubbling liquid were resting on the bedside table.

Meeting her eyes as she crossed to him, he took a glass in each hand, offered one to her with a smug little smirk, the candlelight playing off his features giving him the look of pure, unadulterated _trouble_. The single eyebrow slowly rising only reinforced it.

"So, what do you think?"

Reaching out with his free hand, he caught her around her waist and pulled her in close. Without really intending to, she sort of landed with one leg on either side of his thigh, and when he dragged her in tighter against his chest, suddenly the apex of her thighs was pressed into the thick, hard muscle of his, and holy shit, she barely bit back the moan. She needed to do that again. Maybe several times, repetitively.

"I'll take that as a positive sign."

His smirk had grown, if that that was even possible, at her reaction, but he took a sip of his wine, reminded her she should probably do the same as a distraction from the extremely compelling press of his leg against... Ugh, maybe _more_ alcohol was not the best idea after all. Inhibitions were dropping like flies.

And then, lips still chilly, painted with that golden fizzing liquid, he nuzzled into her neck, attached himself to that one perfect spot just below her ear, lit up every nerve with the combination of cold lips and hot, wet tongue. How many more ways could her brain say "unfff?" And just when she thought the molten lava that had taken up residence in her insides couldn't get any hotter, he flexed his quad.

This time there was no combating the pathetic, wanton little whimper-her vocal cords had a mind of their own.

Barely breaking contact, he leaned to the side to set down his glass, took hers from her embarrassingly shaky hand and set it beside his own. And then somehow her robe was untied and sliding down one shoulder, chased almost immediately by the heat of his tongue as it traced down the strand of pearls from the peak of her collarbone to the swell of her breast.

Oh mother of... pearl. She was not going to last long at this rate. Rolling her hips against his leg, she felt herself flush scarlet at the absolute overload of sensation, what had seemed intrusive only moments ago now not only welcome, but damningly addictive.

Her other shoulder felt the cool rush of exposure to the air of the bedroom as his tongue made its lazy way across the curve of each breast. Reaching the other shoulder, he replaced its slippery softness with the nip of teeth, and _damn. Really_.

Hands never idle, he had her robe completely off before she could even slow him down, and then he was tipping her body back, holding her away so he could run his eyes down over her, see exactly what this birthday present looked like in the flesh.

It was obvious when he got past her waist; his eyes widened, pupils blew out to huge, black saucers, jaw went slack.

Now it was her turn to smirk.

"Wh-when did you-"

"Salon today. Lanie's idea."

"Have I mentioned-" he had to stop and clear his throat because that last syllable had come out as sort of a squeak, "-how much I love your best friend?"

"I'll be sure to tell her you said so."

So far off his game that he didn't even come back with a witty retort, Castle just seemed mesmerized by the sight before him. Taking one finger, he traced the pad along the edges of the rather scandalously diminished patch of curls, then traveled up the strings of pearls, setting off sizzles of need that she was _not_ capable of battling back even for pride's sake at this point.

"I wasn't kidding with that tweet earlier. If you keep getting hotter like this, my heart is just finally going to stop beating all together."

And then his mouth was on hers, and his wide palm was pressed to the small of her back, and it was a good thing he had a steady hold on her, because with everything lined up and pressed tight, her legs completely went to a very happy state of room-temperature Jell-O. As all her weight fell on to the spot where she was straddling him, she let out a surprised little yelp into his mouth and didn't even try to hide it as she circled her hips hard against him. Breaking the kiss just enough to let her lips move against his, she gasped.

"Oh, fuck. Castle I'm..."

Close. She was close. So close she couldn't fully get the words out before she just had to rock against him again. She'd barely moved; he'd barely touched her, but this frakking magical lingerie was going to do her in. Who was this "Dora," and where had she _been_ all her life?

Her body was an arc of electricity fed by the connection between their bodies, bending and sparking with every promiscuous pulse of movement from him, every licentious undulation of her hips.

Still being held up mostly by his arm, wrapped in a vise grip at her waist, her own limbs were nearly limp around his neck, just keeping her balance as he found yet another spot to worry with his lips at the angle of her neck and shoulder. They'd been at this for six months; where the Hell did he _find_ these spots?

And then she felt his free hand slide down past the small of her back, over the curve of her ass, and he slipped a finger around the two strings of pearls, then tugged on them gently, making them slide through her center, each round bead nudging against her swollen bundle of nerves as it slipped past.

Her climax came on a scream, so sudden and sharp that she lost her senses for a moment, everything collapsing around that one point of light and heat and glorious _contact_.

As her fuzzy hearing settled, she felt him huff a little laugh against her ear. His voice came out low, gruff, with just a hint of a tease.

"I think you might actually _like_ your naughty birthday lingerie, Detective Beckett."

Breathing still ragged, she managed to get her weight back on her own two feet, stand back from him to pin him with narrowed eyes and a saucy, if somewhat breathless, smile.

"Maybe just a little."

Stepping further away, she took her glass in hand and sipped calmly at her bubbles, raised an eyebrow in seeming disinterest while conveniently ignoring the scarlet flush to her chest, the heave of her breasts as she tried to control her breathing.

Pushing off from his spot against the mattress, he grabbed his champagne and took a long draught, then hooked a finger in the lace at her waist.

"I think you should get your naughty-lingerie-covered butt in this bed before I have to pick you up and toss you there."

Tapping one finger firmly against his sternum, she stepped closer.

"Oh, you wouldn't dare. And maybe you haven't noticed, but this lingerie covers exactly none of my ass...ets."

"Oh, I definitely noticed. Somewhere between the robe coming off and you, well, c-"

Stopping that train of thought with a thorough kiss, she lost the wine again and edged him back toward the bed. Apparently unable to resist the temptation once he'd said the words aloud, Castle did grab her by the waist and haul her up off her feet just far enough to fling her over on to the middle of the mattress.

Landing with a laugh, she glared at him, because she knew he loved pointing out that he had arms big enough to haul her around if he really wanted to, and because she secretly enjoyed the fact that he could, but only if she deigned to allow it. In retaliation, she grabbed him by the waist of his boxers and pulled him on top of her, under the covers.

When he disappeared under the comforter with a flurry of noisy, sloppy kisses down her belly, she giggled again, but the laughter stopped when he found his target, settled there and blew out a breath against her over-sensitized flesh.

A shiver seized her whole body when his tongue made languid contact. Outlining the path of the pearls with soft, gentle heat, he had her curling her toes and fisting her hands in the pillowcase above her head until her fingertips started to go numb. The noises she was making had ceased to make sense, ceased to be words, even, and her hips pulsed up without her consent, trying to find more contact, more pressure, more friction.

Focusing in on her center with slow, tight circles of his tongue, he clamped his hands around her hips and tugged them lower, making the strands of beads tighten against her, outlining the path of his caress with the contrast of the constant pressure of the tiny spheres.

That combination of stasis and motion, cold and heat, soft and firm was maddening enough, brought beads of perspiration to the valley between her breasts, her brow, made her breath start and stop on harsh, stilted pants. But then, _then_, two thick fingers stroked deep and found her sweet spot, used the angle to trap the strands tighter still against her.

Knowing exactly how to make her writhe on an average night, without wine or lingerie or pearls or her birthday, his touch was sure, confident, steady, creating a rhythm, a cadence she could build on, respond to, without needing to shift or guide or adjust or think at all. In this swirling whirlpool of want, she could simply float, react, trust him enough to be pleasantly…_surprised_.

And as he escalated with lips and palm and fingers and tongue, everything inside her coiled again, warmed to a simmer and then a rolling boil. This was what she'd never had with a lover-the faith that no matter the night, no matter how tired or stressed or ornery either of them was, this pursuit of pleasure was a shining, unwavering constant. He would always find a way, and she would always give it back.

When his lips closed around her and his voice hummed a hungry, vibrating note that stirred absolutely everything inside her, she got one quick breath in before all that heat convulsed, expanded, shone like beams of light from her fingertips and toes. She was falling hard, and he kept her there, in suspended animation, held to earth only by his mouth and hands for what felt like an eternity. Finally unable to stand any more, she choked out a plea.

"Enough. Enough, I can't... Castle!"

Gentling and then withdrawing all contact, he climbed up her body, over loose limbs and sated, quivering muscles, until he was fully on top of her, using his mass to anchor her floating form to the reality of the softness of their bed.

Using more strength than she thought she had left, Kate leaned up to capture his lips, tasted herself there, moaned as he slid a hand around to cradle her head, keep her tucked up against him. Tongues twirled together, each one battling for dominance. How had she still not tired of kissing him after so many months? He could drive her mad with just this one act, his single-minded determination, his gripping passion to possess her mouth completely overwhelming her until she was caught up again, wanting him again, needing to feel him inside her.

As he let her sink back into the pillows, hands trailing down to the lace at her hips, she caught his wrists.

"No, leave them on."

In the flicker of candlelight, his eyes went two shades darker, if that was even possible.

Reaching behind her, she unfastened her own bra, let him drag the straps down and off, finally freeing that bit of neglected skin. His mouth immediately attached, swirled, suckled as if his very life depended upon the contact. Arching her back, she offered herself up, and he met her with escalating demand, pulling more of her flesh into his mouth, dragging the curve of his tongue along the puckered flesh, then taking her lightly between his teeth, using just the perfect amount of pressure so that she had no choice but to cry out, expletives tumbling from her mouth uncensored.

Never one to ignore symmetry, he paid the same attention to her other breast as she flexed her hips up and into his, pulled one knee up until it settled just above the crest of his hipbone. The move was both invitation and insistence, and he didn't ignore it. Two fingers finding their way down between them, he slid the now-slick strands of pearls apart, making room for himself and sweetly, evilly tormenting her in the process.

Nosing up her chest and neck until his lips found hers again, he positioned himself at her entrance, his eager and long-ignored arousal insinuating itself between swollen folds, bracketed by the unyielding lingerie.

The thrust of his tongue, deep into the recesses of her mouth, mirrored that of his body inside hers. In that moment of spreading, stretching, filling, she let out a moan that reverberated back from the hollow of his cheeks, was answered by his own resonant note of fulfillment at their merging.

Wanting him as deep as she could possibly take him, she lifted her other knee to angle just above his hip, making perfect parentheses at his waist and drawing him further into her body.

As he drew back, pulling nearly out of her, and then sank again, the meeting of their bodies brought home exactly how _high_ her lingerie had managed to ride _up_ during their love-making. Another firm thrust, and she let out a gasp into his mouth.

"You like that?"

Oh, my, _yes_. Not that they hadn't played around, a well-placed, well-timed fingertip here and there, but she certainly had never had underwear involved quite so _directly_ in such a sensitive area.

With his next thrust, this time advancing farther, using more force, she half-sobbed out in the affirmative.

"Yes."

Picking up on exactly what part of their movement and contact she was responding to, he planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her shoulders and used his forearms to leverage her knees higher, then pumped his hips again.

"Harder."

His eyes narrowed at her low, strangled whisper. Her fingers dug into the firm muscle of his ass, pulling him tighter against her. Forcing her lips to form words again, using every bit of mental effort she had left, her tone was decisive, unwavering, raw, _sex_.

"Do it harder and I'll come."

That was the only invitation he needed. His hips snapped upward as he rocked the full weight of his lower body into hers, using the same methodical rhythm that he knew would eventually push her over the edge.

As he stroked deep, hitting every lettered spot inside her and maybe a few that had yet to be named, her inner muscles clenched reflexively, held on to him when he withdrew. Two more heaving strokes and she was drawn up, a taut, straining band, ready to snap.

"Kate."

That was the desperate rasp she heard only when he was afraid he might lose control before he had gotten her there with him.

"Don't you dare stop. Don't you dare."

So close she could feel the quivering tension in her body seeking release against the counterpoint of his motion, she forced her eyes open, focused on the concentration in the set of his jaw, the crease between his brows, the desire in the dark depths of his eyes, the abandon that radiated from the flush of his skin, the beads of perspiration coalescing, demarcating a lucid trail over the arc of his cheekbone.

The inevitability caught her, held her on the precipice, and as she felt his body finally, irrevocably surrender, stuttering and spilling and pulsating inside her as his voice cried out an incoherent roar, it pushed her over the edge. Her whole body quaked in time with his, persisting until she could no longer keep her eyes open, had to succumb to the lightness of her limbs, the soaring of her heart.

Probably minutes later, muscles trembling with the fatigue of sustained effort, she wrapped her arms solidly around him, dipped her fingertips into the ridges of muscle outlining his spine, let her legs fall to the bed. The blankets long gone, she began to feel the chill of the wintry room, despite their raging fire and the heat of his body still slack and heavy atop hers. Her fingers found the edge of the sheet, just above the curve of his ass, and she tugged it up to cover them both, rousing him from his post-coital haze.

"Mmmmm."

His voice vibrating off the tender skin over her collarbone provoked a huff of laughter from her semi-squeezed lungs.

"Happy Birthday, Kate."

His voice sounded half-drunk, laced with sleep and lust and love. She knew exactly what her wish would be, blowing out all 33 candles.

"And many, many more."

**# * # * # * # * #**

**Lingerie: Just Google "Bracli" and you will get the idea, or look at these 2 specific images-**

**nylonparadies dot com slash images slash product_images slash original_images/ slash 1391_0 dot jpg**

**OR**

**scene1 dot barenecessities dot com dot edgesuite dot net slash is slash image slash BareNecessities slash thongbra4?$Main375x440$&wid=375&hei=440**

**Was this naughty enough for you? ;)**

**Hope so.**

**Thanks for sticking with it.**

**If you want to get to know Dora better, try my story, "Enlightenment." There's plenty of the lingerie-pushing crazy Texan there, once you get past that awful Victoria's Secret scene. Blech!**

**And as ALWAYS, thank you to JOY for being my uber-beta and expert word repetition safety net. I would fall flat on my writer's bum without you to catch me!**

**-Kate**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com**


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